


satisfied body, hungry soul

by cherryconke



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon Compliant, Friendship, Gen, References to Depression, References to Miklan's Death, Sylvain Gautier Talks About Feelings, Sylvain Jose Gautier Character Study, Sylvain's A-Supports (except Felix and Byleth)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:28:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25382353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryconke/pseuds/cherryconke
Summary: Sylvain smiles again. It’s that shiny, fake one Ingrid has watched him perfect throughout the years – first for his father, then, when that trick paid off, for everyone else, too. Ingrid hates it.“I can handle myself, Ingrid.”—For Sincerity: A Sylvain Gautier Zine
Comments: 2
Kudos: 57





	satisfied body, hungry soul

**Author's Note:**

> hi! i'm excited to be able to share my full piece for [Sincerity.](https://gumroad.com/l/XOSXa) please go check out the entire zine, it's full of incredible fic + art all about Sylvain! ❤️

“And, get this – Thea, you won’t _believe_ what she said next.”

Dorothea’s eyes flick over to where Sylvain lounges on top of her bed, arms pillowed beneath his head, one leg idly bouncing off a bent knee. Sunlight cascades through the open window, velvet curtains pushed back to illuminate him in every shade of lush crimson as his hands gesture wildly through the air, rehashing the gossip about his current flavor of the week. 

Dorothea, on the other hand, is perched on a tufted stool in front of her makeshift vanity, decorated with brooches and pearls, smelling of camellias and lily-of-the-valleys (yet another wilting gift from one of her fair-weather secret admirers). She’s in the middle of dappling sheer powder over the line of her cheekbones with a boar-bristle brush, and she’d _been_ in the middle of taking the curlers out of her hair when Sylvain knocked on her door earlier, his knuckles ringing as hollow as his heart when he whined _Theaaa_ through the walnut.

“Thea?”

Oh, right. It’s time for her line, the same every week, feigning surprise just as well as Sylvain feigns genuine interest for the fellow students he flutters his lashes at and the classes he pays an iota of attention to: “What did she say?”

“That she saw me kissing her sister goodnight on Tuesday. But there’s no way that was me, I was in town with Hilda!” Sylvain sighs and flops his head back on her pillow, defeated. “I think she was trying to get rid of me.”

Sometimes, Dorothea wonders if Sylvain will ever notice the way Ingrid always keeps one eye on him on the battlefield, or how Dimitri leaves gifts of tea and sweets in front of his bedroom door after visiting the market in town, or the way Felix wakes up early to triple-check Sylvain’s equipment the morning before marching out – if he’ll ever pick his head up and notice the plethora of people he doesn’t need to chase to love him.

Today, clearly, is not that day.

“Sylvain,” she sighs, stuffing the brush back into the porcelain jar full of lipsticks and liners in every shade of rouge, turning around on the stool, “you’re a disaster.”

Sylvain’s laugh is sharp and futile in response. He tilts his head to the side, his smile wide and true even though his words break her heart a little bit. “Yeah? You’re just figuring this out _now?”_

Dorothea’s softened to Sylvain over their months together, despite his first (and second, _and_ third) marriage proposal. It hadn’t taken her long to figure him out: Sylvain was reckless on the battlefield and ruthless in the art of self-destruction disguised as having fun, but something about his particular brand of nihilism and foolish flirting had made her impossibly fond of him.

“You didn’t come here to talk about that.”

“No.” Sylvain drags his hand over his eye, grinding his palm into his socket as he huffs out a defeated sigh. “No, I didn’t.”

She’s heard the rumors; they’d spread far and wide the day the messenger had shown up with a letter emblazoned with the Margrave’s name, crimson wax dripping decadence with the Gautier-gold crest. 

“You’re nervous about next month.”

He neither confirms nor denies this, but the flicker of dim despair in his eyes says enough.

“Sylvain, it’s okay to be worried–”

He huffs out an exasperated sigh. “I’m _not_ worried.”

Dorothea gives him what he’s affectionately dubbed as _The Look:_ one eyebrow raised, lips pursed, doubt written all over her face.

“Fine. Maybe I’m a little worried.”

“It’s perfectly normal to be nervous.” She doesn’t mention how she used to get sick to her stomach with nerves before performances, holding hair back from a perfect lipstick pout before going onstage and singing for hundreds of people each night. She doesn’t think it’ll make Sylvain feel much better, not when he’s faced with the very real possibility of having to kill his kin.

“Have you been training?”

Sylvain’s grimace tells her everything she needs to know. 

She huffs out an annoyed sigh, impatient now, before turning back to her reflection in the mirror. “Sylvain.”

“I _know,_ I know. The professor said they’d come with me, though. So did some of the other Lions.”

It’s a small comfort knowing that he’ll be protected out there physically. Still, that’s not what Dorothea’s worried about, not really – but what do you say to someone who’s been sent to “take care of” their brother by their own father? What _could_ you say?

“Still. Be careful, won’t you?”

Sylvain lifts his head off the bed to crack a grin at her. “Always am.”

Dorothea has always been able to recognize a lie when she hears one; this time is no different.

Sylvain’s tone shifts now, back to light and frivolous. It’s a poorly-concealed attempt at changing topics, but she lets it slide as he sits up, noticing the makeup spilled out over her vanity and the hair ribbons unspooled across the desk for the first time since he stepped into the room. “Hey, what are you getting all dressed up for, anyway?”

“A date.” She leaves it at that, but can’t help the small curl of a smile that sneaks its way across her face as she starts to dab rouge onto the apples of her cheeks. Sylvain’s face slides into a pout, just this side of teasing. 

“Aw, without me?”

Dorothea smirks back at him through the mirror, falling back into the routine of flirty banter that’s become fondly familiar. “Yep.”

Sylvain’s grin grows impossibly wide, a sharp slash of white across the room, laughter laced through: “Marry me.” 

His frequent proposals have grown into an inside joke now, a cynical nod to a future they’re each destined to but both dread. Sylvain’s laughter rings bright and true when she flips her middle finger at him affectionately through the mirror, chuckles that effervesce into great big peals throughout her room. 

—

Sylvain is late. _Again._

Weak morning light shines in through the open half-doors of the stable – the sun cleared the horizon nearly three hours ago – when an unruly mess of red hair pops into Ingrid’s field of vision. The scent of eucalyptus soap follows Sylvain as he unlatches the gate and lets himself in, cutting through the overwhelming scent of straw-strewn muck and muddy water that Ingrid is currently covered up to her knees in. 

“So. You decided to show up,” she calls, voice echoing through the wooden rafters, trying – and failing – not to let defeated frustration bubble up from where it’s been slowly simmering in her chest since sunrise, the only one to show up to the stable duty Byleth assigned them last week.

Sylvain clearly doesn’t catch on. “Of course I did!”

Ingrid’s hackles fall, just a little bit, at the obliviousness in his tone. It’s always been difficult for her to stay mad at her oldest friend for long, but he’s been testing her patience more often lately. 

“Well, you’re late. I’m almost done.”

At least he didn’t drag another infatuated, lovesick girl along with him, Ingrid muses as Sylvain makes his way further into the stable, fingertips brushing against whiskey-leather tack, pausing to rub a few curious noses poking out of their stalls. Sylvain looks at home here in a way he often doesn’t, in a way she can relate to. Horses are easy, picking up on emotions without having to articulate them out loud – something neither of them have ever been particularly adept at.

“I’m here now, though!” 

Sylvain’s smile crinkles his eyes up at the edges as he coos at Biscuit, slipping her sugarcubes from his jacket pocket. Apparently, he’d found the time to run to the kitchens for treats, but not make it on time for the actual work. _Typical._ Ingrid can’t help the snipe that leaves her lips next, sarcastic and half-serious.

“Where’s your girlfriend? Or boyfriend. Whoever you’re doing these days.”

 _“Ouch._ You wound me, Ingrid.”

She finally looks up from where she’s brushing out Biscuit’s coat. Sylvain’s at least picked up another curry comb and made himself useful. Ingrid can see the edge of a bandage peeking out of where his jacket sleeve is cuffed and rolled up.

“Wait, were you in the infirmary? Did you get hurt again?” 

If it happened at Remire, she hadn’t noticed it – but then again, she was too busy covering Ashe’s blind spot with her own lance for most of the battle. Sylvain shrugs, all fake nonchalance. “It’s just a scratch.”

Ingrid thinks about watching from the sky as Sylvain cut down the beast Miklan had become. She’d been too far away to see his face, but she’d been there for the aftermath: how he’d wrapped her and Dimitri and Felix into an impossibly tight hug before going to bury the bones of his brother. She hasn't missed the dark circles carving themselves beneath his eyes in the weeks after, or how his form gets sloppier every day, his lance gathering rust on the training hall rack.

“You need to be more careful.”

Sylvain chuckles, hollow and dark. “You sound like Felix.”

Ingrid persists, because despite the teasing, she _does_ care. That, and she’s always had to repeat things at least three times to get through that thick skull of his. “I’m worried about you.”

His eyes slide away from hers, but Ingrid doesn’t relent, even as he slips another sugarcube from his pocket and holds it flat on his palm for Biscuit. When he looks back at her, there’s a glimmer of mirth in freckled hazel-gold. “Hey, not all of us are cut out to be knights.”

 _You sure look like one out on the battlefield._ Ingrid manages to bite her tongue, because that isn’t the point. “I’m not asking for you to be a knight. I’m just asking you to not get yourself killed out there.”

Sylvain smiles again. It’s that shiny, fake one Ingrid has watched him perfect throughout the years – first for his father, then, when that trick paid off, for everyone else, too. Ingrid hates it.

“I can handle myself, Ingrid.”

His voice is deceptively light and airy, brushing off her concern with practiced ease. She hates that, too. 

She also hates that it’s the exact sentiment she’s heard dozens of times before. It’s the same stupid, stubborn _don’t worry about me_ mentality of Felix’s; it’s the same way Glenn brushed off minor injuries and major scars alike, casual and carefree until his last breath.

The anger bleeds out into something that feels inexplicably worse as she looks at Sylvain, who’s back to stroking Biscuit’s neck. He looks _tired,_ the light in his eyes dulled to dim static, the muscles in his jaw clenching in masked pain every time he raises his shoulder to work through another tangle. It reminds Ingrid of how he looked at fifteen: holding her through all of her furious tears and choked sobs after Glenn’s death; coaxing her bites off of his own plate when her appetite disappeared (as it tends to do in grief); patient and persistent in ways that no one else was for her.

And because _she’s_ nothing if not persistent, Ingrid tries one more time. “Train with me tomorrow.”

Sylvain lifts his gaze, quirking a brow at her. “Really?”

Ingrid huffs. “Yes, really.”

His expression bleeds into that smirk again. “You know, there’s plenty of practice dummies to take your anger out on–”

“Sylvain.” She takes a deep breath. “Please?”

Something on her face must have given her away, because Sylvain’s expression shifts, cracking into a half-broken smile.

“Sure.”

—

“You’re awfully quiet today.”

When Sylvain had wandered into the kitchen earlier, Mercedes expected nothing but interruptions. It’s what usually happened whenever he caught a whiff of whatever she was baking – this weekend, it was Dimitri’s birthday cake – and popped in to distract her with his latest gossip, all while sneaking spoonfuls of batter.

Instead, she’d gotten uncharacteristically quiet company: a quiet nod instead of flirty banter as he passes her eggs and sugar; his usual cheeky grin replaced by a distracted look as he wipes up the spilled flour speckled across the counter.

Light filters in through the window she’d thrown open earlier that morning, hoping for a glimpse of spring sun from behind the flurried clouds. It casts a warm halo around Sylvain’s silhouette, catching the tips of his hair ablaze with refracted light, glowing in his quiet sorrow.

Sylvain’s eyes pull up to meet hers, hands slowing as they work to dry a clean plate. He looks tired, a little worn around the edges. Mercedes swears she can pinpoint the moment his mask slips on: the marionette pull tugging the corners of his lips up; the steely shape of a lifetime of play-pretend blurring his eyes into a pleasant smile. 

“Aw, Mercedes. Don’t tell me you miss the sweet, sweet sound of my voice.”

She raises an eyebrow at him, thoroughly unconvinced. 

Sylvain’s smile cracks, splinters at the seams, then finally falls. “You always see right through me, you know that?”

She presses her lips together, humming thoughtfully. Sylvain’s always been, more or less, an open book – at least for her. His smiles and intentions are clear in ways that his honeyed words aren’t, and though his cleverly crafted masks tend to temporarily win over the unsuspecting, it hadn’t taken Mercedes more than a handful of moments together to realize that lackadaisical pretense is exactly that: a shiny veneer, honed to its sharpest edge.

“Maybe so,” Mercedes agrees. “But I can’t read your mind.”

The sigh Sylvain lets out is long and slow, the tension bleeding from his shoulders and the line of his jaw as he stretches one arm above the other, clasping his wrists together. 

“I’ve been thinking,” he starts. Mercedes waits patiently, carefully folding the flour into the bowl of batter. It’s usually what works best: giving people the space they need to find the words on their own. She sprinkles a hearty pinch of salt into the bowl and mixes it in. “About my brother.”

She’s heard Sylvain talk about Miklan before, on the handful of occasions they’ve traded bits and pieces of their trauma back and forth. He'd died like he lived, violent and stubborn and selfish (but he died all the same, may the Goddess have mercy on his soul). 

When she looks up from the batter, Sylvain’s face is crumpled. It’s not the first time she’s seen him in one of his despairing moods, but it _is_ the first time he’s looked so bitter. Defeated. Like all the fight’s been punched out of him, and he has nothing left to give. It’s heartbreaking in the worst way, nothing like when he comes crying to her every other week. She sets the bowl down on the counter, a gentle clink of ceramic against tile. 

“It was unfair of your father to put you up against him like that.” 

Sylvain blinks. Then he laughs: a small, incredulous thing. “Yeah, right. Try asking him that. It was my,” he pauses here, words dripping with disdain and disgust, _“duty_ to take care of him.”

Mercedes thinks of the stories she’s heard about the Margrave: selfish and quick to anger, his wrathful rage icier than the snow capped peaks fanning out into infinite, frozen tundra that marks the border they’re sworn to defend. She’s never met his father, but Sylvain’s just about the opposite in almost every single way: impossibly warm, self-loathing to a fault.

“Sylvain,” she starts, reaching out to graze fingertips across his shoulder. The wavering smile he gives her nearly splits her heart in two: like he’s desperate to believe she has all the right answers. This, more than anything, grounds her. She strengthens her hold on his arm, directing his gaze towards her for the briefest flicker of a glance.

“You know he’s wrong,” she points out, not unkindly. “I _know_ you know that.”

Sylvain turns to look out the window. Light splashes across his face, each freckle illuminated incandescence, eyes honey gold where he gazes towards the sun. The sigh he lets out is long and slow as he leans, just the tiniest bit, into her hand.

“Yeah.” Sylvain smiles. It’s truer this time, infinitely more sincere. “Yeah, you’re probably right. You always are, Mercedes.” 

She probably isn’t, but Sylvain doesn’t need to know that. 

  
  



End file.
